AN: It has gotten to the stage where, if I was stranded in the desert for 50 days without water or food, and, after that time, assuming I was still alive, I was offered the choice between a bottle of water and the Sixth Season of Doctor Who, I would choose the latter. This is a consequence of that. Hope it's ok :)
The Doctor sat in the kitchen twiddling his thumbs. He wasn't bored, far from it. Rather, he was training.
Twiddling thumbs was, unbeknownst to many, great for cardiovascular problems, drastically heightened concentration, and, on the planet of Kaur-Ozh, was the main discipline in the annual Thumb-Twiddling Tournament.
He should know, he was the current defending champion.
Besides, he mused, winking at his reflection in the stainless steel TARDIS fridge, sweatbands were cool.
He was just rounding in on the most strenuous facet of his regime (alternating forward and backward twiddles, with 300 full twiddles per minute), when he heard Amy's brassy, flirty giggle, and the responding murmurs of a deep, resonating, American tone.
His hands clasped even tighter, his eyes widened and a sudden wave of nervous sweat made his sweatband finally somewhat useful.
He had hoped, prayed even, to every single god and deity in existence that this moment would never arise. He'd even made some sacrifices. And he had really grown quite fond of those fake sacrificial lambs.
He gulped and, in a fit of bizarre human naivety and potent Time Lord confusion, crossed himself, looked pleadingly towards the heavens, and bolted from the room.
Amy was in the console room, leaning casually against the rail, smirking at her new-found distraction. She'd been wandering the corridors of the TARDIS, alone, knowing not to disturb the Doctor during his workout, desperately wishing for some kind of amusement, when she had almost crashed into the man before her. Admittedly, she was thinking more of a Scrabble board, or, you know, a copy of Titanic, but hey, she wasn't one to be ungrateful. Especially since this particular distraction was hotter and more charming than Leonardo DiCaprio and the use of a Z and a Q on a triple word score combined.
She was just about to casually drop her occupation into the conversation when, suddenly, the Doctor burst into the room, flinging himself between Amy and the handsome stranger. He skidded to a halt, huffed a breath, flailed around for a moment with his hands, gesticulating in an odd mixture of exasperation and despair, stopped dead still, and leveled a glare at the man.
His hair and bow tie were horribly askew, the sweatband and it's gawdy yellow material partially blocking his sight, and, due to his inability to complete a proper warm down, his thumbs were throbbing uncomfortably.
"Doctor!" cried the man jovially, "Nice face. Nice..." he glanced at Amy, "...friend."
The Doctor did not reply, but followed the man's gaze directly to Amy's legs. He turned abruptly and, to Amy's amused half-protestation, attempted to tug her skirt down to a more conservative length. He was certain, if his thumbs weren't hurting, that he would have succeeded. With an agitated flourish, he gave up, and instead, steered her away to stand behind the chair next to the console, her legs, thankfully, for the time being, blocked from view.
"Oh, come on now," the man began, almost pouting.
"No, Jack." the Doctor interjected.
Jack smirked, "Ooh! Tall, dark and handsome with this one, eh? Your previous regeneration would have said exactly the same thing, except, you know, he only would have just finished saying it right about...now."
Amy snorted, skipping out of her furniture-imposed isolation and wrenching the sweatband off of the Doctor's head. "Oh," she said to Jack, flinging the offending garment off into the nether regions of the TARDIS' cavernous roof, "so you know him? Bit of a talker, was he?"
"Absolutely. Don't let him tell you stories about how he saved the Earth from a Cyberman and Darlek invasion, or saved Christmas from the Sycorax or navigated the minefields Donna Noble's personality with only his ample wit and intelligence. He just wouldn't shut up. Ever. That was his weapon. This regeneration however..." he trailed off, looking the Doctor up and down. "I like your hair."
The Doctor wished his hair would disappear.
"I like your bow tie."
The Doctor wished his bow tie would disappear.
"I like your pants."
The Doctor wished...wait.
The Doctor sighed loudly. "Jack, must you always be like the ancient cliffs of the Menal Galaxy?"
Jack grinned, "Afraid so."
"Wait," Amy said, "what are the ancient cliffs of the Menal Galaxy like?"
The Doctor grimaced, "Irrepressible, intimidating, conspicuous and always, always horny."
Amy decided to let that one go.
"And Doctor, you're forgetting yourself, why haven't I been introduced to your new companion yet? I see you've maintained and, dare I say, even extended the trend of welcoming gorgeous women into your company."
Amy blushed.
The Doctor shook his head. "I'm still hoping we get thrust into a supernova before I divulge that information."
Amy rolled her eyes. Striding confidently over, she shook Jack's hand. "I'm Amy Pond." she smiled seductively, "Currently single and kiss-a-gram extraordinaire."
Jack chuckled. "What an interesting title."
"You'd think so. The Doctor refuses to acknowledge it," the Doctor shriveled under her glare, "but you know, I do what I can."
"Oh I like this one, Doc," Jack grinned. The Doctor sulked. "I bet she doesn't take any 'The Oncoming Storm' crap from you."
"Ha!" Amy exclaimed. "The Oncoming Storm? What's that then? Some kind of B grade deep sea fishing horror movie?"
"Not quite," Jack snickered, sliding an arm around Amy's waist, "however, there was this one time when I was on a deep sea fishing boat in the turbulent oceans of Alukumsu and..." they walked off, Jack's lilting voice and Amy's giggles prodding and taunting the Doctor mercilessly.
At the entrance, Amy turned, smirked at his darkened expression and waved in a queenly fashion, before rejoining Jack and loudly explaining, "Oh don't worry. He's just Mr. Grumpy Face today."
Mr. grumpy Face kicked a rail, huffed a sigh, crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes and scowled. The TARDIS made amused noises and he pointed angrily at the console, "Oi! Shut it! I'm cross."
He liked Jack, he really did, but whenever he leered at, or flirted with someone that was His, he had half a mind to shut the TARDIS door on his fingers, or poke him in the eye, or kick him in the shin, or utilise the special setting on the sonic screwdriver to surgically banish that smirk from his stupid smirky face. He paused, or, he grinned evily, call Ianto.
Buoyed by his own delicious inventiveness, he rounded on the console, took the phone from its hook and keyed in the phone number with his thumbs.
Jack was gone within 10 minutes.
Amy was disappointed, but placated when the TARDIS procured not only a copy of Titanic, but of Romeo and Juliet, Shutter Island and Blood Diamond as well, and the Doctor returned to the kitchen, that dreaded event having finally been successfully navigated.
Settling down at the table, he pulled another sweatband from his pocket (bright green this time) and resumed his training. Afterward, he purchased a sacrificial altar from the planet of Kir-Sharah and 7 fake sacrificial elk.
65,498 years later, the Doctor, beaming, held the Kaur-Ozh Thumb-Twiddling Tournament trophy aloft, defending, yet again, his beloved title. After the necessary civilities he waded through the adoring crowd towards Amy.
"Aha!" he yelled, standing proudly in front of her, "Am I not Mr. Victory Face today? Mr. Successful Face? Mr. First Face?" Amy laughed loudly and he began to get carried away. "No, go on, truly! Mr. Legend Face! Mr. Can't Ever Be Beaten Face! Mr. Irresistible To Any Living Organism In Every Single Universe In All Of Space And Time Face!"
He heard an appreciative sigh behind him. "Pretty much," said a deep, resonating, American voice.
The Doctor sighed and looked towards the heavens.
Best try the fake sacrificial goldfish next time.